


Marital Bed

by MadameReveuse



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Descole mentioned, Jealousy, Masked Gentleman Randall (at first), Masturbation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M, post-reunion, randall is a good boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29503155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameReveuse/pseuds/MadameReveuse
Summary: A comedy in two parts.The Masked Gentleman imagines all the ways in which Henry and Angela Ledore might have backstabbed him. Later, Randall sees it all with clearer eyes. Maybe his fantasy can still come true - in an altogether better, lovelier way. With himself included.
Relationships: Randall Ascot/Angela Ledore/Henry Ledore
Kudos: 2





	Marital Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again in the Layton fandom!! Lmfao it was so funny to write Sexy Possessive Henry from Randall's fantasy. The real Henry was probably scrubbing the floor in that moment. Also the thought that Henry and Angela might agree to have home stories published about them to uphold the facade of Happily Married Powercouple was hilarious to me
> 
> Kudos/comments super appreciated!! I've got another Ranhengela fic in the works, that one way more complicated than this one! It's angst for all of them so I had to put the porn somewhere else. Which ended up being this.

Randall is in between Dark Miracles, and with nothing to do.

He can’t go into town, because even without the Masked Gentleman getup, there’s a small but present chance he’s going to be recognized. The city is large and packed with tourists but with his luck, he might just stumble upon Angela or Henry or even Dalston… or Hershel, now that he’s in town. So Randall can do nothing but hang around the Reunion Inn, and he is bored out of his mind.

He’d go and bother Descole a bit, but Descole left to hit the town an hour ago. Nothing keeps _him_ from simply taking the tricorn and mask off and having some fun while the city still stands, which is unfair in and of itself. He’ll probably return later, reeking of wine and rambling about his father who runs a cult or something by the name of… what was it? Target? Tangent? Randall half-believes that this is something Descole just makes up when he’s wine-drunk. Either way, he’ll likely not be back for hours.

Randall goes looking around the hotel room for anything to alleviate his boredom. His eye catches on a few magazines that the staff must have put here for the guests’ entertainment. Idly, he picks them up.

One is about cars, one seems to contain beauty tips for ladies. The last one… Randall lets out a hiss, flinching back from the cover as if stung.

It seems to be an offshoot of something like Vogue, specific to Monte d’Or. Not a cheap gossip rag, but a glossy, high-quality production with tasteful photographs detailing the lifestyle of the rich and famous. From the cover, Henry and Angela look up at him.

They are dressed smartly, matching pastel colors, matching smiles. Henry’s hand is on Angela’s shoulder. The cover promises some sort of home story inside, a look into the swoon-worthy relationship of Monte d’Or’s founder and his lovely wife. It makes Randall seethe with rage. There they are, those traitors, living it up on _his_ dime, in total disregard of the life _he_ should have had.

(Had he had the wherewithal to look for it, and hadn’t the suite been so dim with the encroaching night, perhaps Randall would have seen that Angela’s hand rested on the pendant he had once given her, and he would have deciphered what Angela and Henry’s eyes truly told him beyond the fake smiles for the photographer. _We are waiting. We are wanting. We are lonely. Please come back to us._ )

(But Descole’s lies are convincing, and they ring loud.)

Incensed with anger, Randall thumbs through the magazine until he finds the offending story. There are large pictures of Henry and Angela’s mansion, the two of them draped on the furniture, smiling, exchanging fond glances. In the semi-darkness, he can read snatches of the article:

> _““When I met Henry all these years ago, he was just a butler,” the charming Mrs. Ledore explains with a laugh, “But I always knew that beneath that quiet facade was an enormous amount of potential. Henry’s strength and determination is what gets me through the day.”_
> 
> _“Angela’s contribution cannot be valued highly enough. I could not have built anything here without the steadfast support of my wife,” adds Monte d’Or’s founder...”_

To Randall, it’s like they’re directly mocking him.

Henry and Angela… the two most important people in his old life… and they’ve stabbed him in the back, stolen from him, and then forgotten him. How could they?! He never would have thought them capable of this!

But Descole said so, and the evidence is right before his eyes, so it must be true…

Randall wonders what they are doing right now, in their sprawling house across town, Angela and Henry. Maybe having a late supper. Lovestruck gazes over glasses of wine. Maybe they’re sitting by the fireplace, making small-talk about their day, like married couples do. Maybe Henry puts an arm around Angela like in the picture. Maybe she smiles and snuggles into his side, resting her head against his chest…

Or… well, it’s late. Perhaps the happy couple has… retired to the bedroom already.

Randall groans and rakes his hands through his hair in frustration. He picks up the magazine and furiously flings it across the room, where it lands on the floor with an unsatisfying _thwap_. But it’s too late. Now that the thought occurred, his mind can’t unsee it.

The magazine didn’t have a picture of the Ledore marital bedroom, so Randall’s mind has to fill in the gaps. What he ends up with is a mix of the suite he’s currently in and his parents’ bedroom at the old Ascot house. Would Henry scoop Angela up and carry her to bed…? No, that’s something _Randall_ might want to do, but Henry’s more subtle. Henry would let Angela lead him by the hand, play it coy, wait for her. He’d watch with these cool blue eyes as Angela reaches back to unzip her dress. Run a finger down her spine as the zipper comes undone, almost reverent. Angela would shiver with delightful anticipation and reach up to undo Henry’s tie, slide off his blazer, unbutton his shirt.

Randall groans again. These images are taunting him, tormenting him, but there’s no doubt about the fact that he’s getting hard, his crotch feeling tight.

In his imagination, Angela steps out of her dress, lies down on the bed and reaches for Henry to pull him onto her. Henry follows with a little grunt, his clothes now also gone. He kisses her, and Angela wraps her arms around his shoulders, runs her hands down his back, eager for her husband. Henry nuzzles her throat… sucks some hickeys down her neck as she moans… she’s going to have to cover those tomorrow if she wants to look respectable…

Randall lets out a little whine, grinding his palm against his crotch. Ah, fuck it. He yanks his trousers down sharply. He might as well…

Henry thrusts into her, the long lean line of his body taut with tension… Angela’s legs wrap around his narrow waist, her face aglow with euphoria… Henry lets out a little breathy noise with every thrust, his impeccable composure finally faltering…

Randall strokes himself hard and fast. “Henry…” he gasps. “Angela…”

“Mrs. Ledore,” Henry husks into Angela’s ear, nipping at her throat. “Mine, mine alone…”

“Yes,” Angela moans, “Yes, yes, Henry, only yours…”

“Mmnh,” Randall whimpers and comes, spilling all over his pristine white tux. Oh god, he’s going to have to explain the stains to Descole later… hopefully the man will be too drunk to notice…

He comes down breathing heavily, awash with an icky mixture of residual arousal, anger and shame.

He’s going to have to burn that magazine.

* * *

Everything is clearer now. Better than alright. There are no more lies, Descole has seemingly dispersed into thin air, taking all his slanderous fictions with him. The love Randall feels now as he looks at the two most wonderful people in his life feels so much better than the hate and spite did. And everything he felt so torn up about mere days ago? Nothing but a joke.

They are sitting in the parlor of the Ledore mansion, which is probably soon to become the Ledore-Ascot mansion. Henry just brought out tea for them, like old times, and then sat on the couch with them because he belongs there, so much better than old times.

“Soooo,” Randall asks with a grin. “In all those years, did you two ever… you know… consummate the marriage?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Henry promptly goes beet-red, struggling with his mouthful of tea. Angela has to clap him on the back. “No, of course not, not ever!” Henry wheezes once he can again speak.

Randall laughs at himself and his stupid, baseless suspicion.

Angela doesn’t look upset with him, she just shakes her head. “Of course we didn’t, we couldn’t.”

“Because you were waiting for me?” Randall feels his heart well over. What has he ever done to deserve these two and their devotion?

Angela nods. “Yes. Look, I… I must admit there were one or two moments of weakness when I considered it. Sometimes I just felt so hopeless, and thought you were never coming back to us… and I was afraid I was wasting my life, my youth, on a man who would never touch me. I was lonely, you see? I have no close friends here. They would have started asking questions about… about the marriage, and I couldn’t bear the thought of lying over and over. So once or twice I wondered if we couldn’t just… do away with the lies and be husband and wife for real. Henry always rebuffed me.”

Henry looks down at his teacup, seemingly a bit embarrassed.

“He was gentle, you know,” Angela continues. “But he never failed to remind me what we were doing here, and who we were doing it for.”

Henry sighs, sets his tea down and pats Angela’s hand. “If we’re being honest… rejecting you in those moments took some willpower. But I couldn’t… it would have felt like a betrayal. Not only Master Randall, but also… you deserved better than some tryst that would have inevitably turned shameful, guilty…”

Randall looks at them and suppresses a sigh. How lonely they must have been together. Eighteen years is a long time.

“You know,” he says, hoping to coax some levity back into the conversation, “you both are so… look, if you had decided to take that step further and unwind by shtupping each other one or two times, or one or two hundred times… I wouldn’t blame you now.”

They both stare at him mutely. Then Angela speaks up again. “But… when you were the Masked Gentleman, you said…”

“I said a lot of horseradish.” Randall waves it off. “I was acting like a total arse. Still can’t believe Descole got me all riled up and jealous like that. Talking like I own you, Ange.”

Angela visibly deflates. This has been on her mind.

“To be honest…” Randall chuckles. “I even had my own little fantasies about what went on in the Ledore marital bedroom. And now you guys are telling me that didn’t even exist. Kind of disappointing, really!”

“It _truly_ didn’t,” Henry stresses again, but Randall can see some faint amusement in his face now.

“We never even shared a bed,” Angela says. “Henry always had his own separate room… wait. Did you say ‘fantasies’?”

“Well, yes.”

“Fantasies about… us?” Henry asks, as if it’s the most outlandish concept he’s ever heard of.

“None other.” Randall gives him a wide smile. “And I’ve been thinking, while it’s a shame that the Ledore Marital Bedroom was never a thing… well, we have all the time in the world, right?”

Angela blushes. Henry splutters. Randall is one hundred percent sure he’s going to make it a thing.

* * *

The reality of it, once it does come to pass, is at once different and not different from what Randall imagined.

Yes, Angela is in charge, not Henry. Yes, Angela takes Henry by the hand and leads him up to the bed. But then Henry undoes his tie himself, and takes off his blazer, and then accurately folds both items and puts them away on the dresser, impeccable for him to put back on later. Of course. Why did Randall ever imagine he’d throw his clothes on the floor? That’s not _Henry_.

Angela steps out of her shoes, but doesn’t take her dress off yet. The both of them pause, and just look at each other. Then they turn towards him.

Ah, yes. The most striking difference to Randall’s little fantasy is of course that he’s here in the room with them.

He sits down in an armchair tucked into a corner of the bedroom. They’ve discussed – negotiated, even – this beforehand, and it’s been agreed upon that at least at first, Randall is going to watch. It’s what he wants to do, watch. His favorite people, the most beautiful people in his life, together.

Yes, they’ve discussed this. But eighteen years is a long time, and they evidently need encouragement.

“It’s okay, Ange,” Randall says softly, when he sees how Angela’s hands hover over the zipper of her dress. “Henry, can you help her unzip?”

Henry nods. There is no cold detachment in his eyes like Randall pictured it. They are large and blue and… bewildered, if anything, utterly astonished that he gets to do this. “Yes, Master Randall.”

Randall raises a finger. “Ah? What did we agree on?”

Henry shakes his head at himself, huffing a little self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He looks Randall’s way with a small smile, and they understand each other.

Henry isn’t going to do this as an act of service. Henry isn’t going to approach this like he would dusting the parlor or preparing tea. Henry is here because he wants to be here. No more masters and servants, not in this room, not in this house, not in their lives, not ever again.

“It’s okay,” Randall repeats.

Angela turns around so that Henry can reach her zipper, and he undoes it slowly, carefully as if not wanting to spook her. There’s that reverence that Randall expected. Angela tugs her arms out of the sleeves and her dress falls away.

She turns back to face Henry, and Henry’s frozen for a moment, his breaths already coming a bit faster, and Angela murmurs, “Come here,” and cups his face and gets him to lean down for her to kiss.

They kiss slowly, shyly, like teenagers clumsily bumping their lips together, not at all like Monte d’Or’s power couple, not at all like people who have been living as husband and wife for almost two decades. If Randall needed any more proof that this is their first time, he’d have it now. Henry’s hands hover for a moment, not sure where to touch Angela, where it’s appropriate to touch, where he’s allowed to touch. He settles one at the back of her neck, and the kiss deepens, grows more intense. Angela makes a little hum in the back of her throat and gets closer, hands working on Henry’s shirt buttons. She unbuttons and untucks his shirt and strokes his chest, his arms, his waist. At last she breaks the kiss for air.

Henry’s eyes, when he opens them, are soft and wounded. He sways a little, and Randall wonders how he must feel, having this after eighteen years – no, longer, this is Henry – of touch-starvation. Drunk on bliss and reeling with the fact that this is happening. Angela takes his hands and guides them to her back again, to the clasp of her bra. Her voice betrays some urgency when she says, “Take it off me.” Henry’s fingers, usually so adroit, fumble for a second, but then he unclasps her bra and it joins her dress on the floor.

The two of them turn towards Randall again, an unspoken question on both their minds. Does he want to join now? Does he want to take charge?

_Not yet_ , Randall thinks.

“Henry,” he says quietly, trying very hard not to make it an order from Master Randall, “I’d like you to pleasure Angela tonight.”

Henry nods. “How?”

“However you want.” _Come on, don’t tell me you never thought about this. About what you’d do._ “Initiative is appreciated,” he quips.

Henry nods once more. He tugs his shirt the rest of the way off, again folding it crisply and putting it on the dresser while Angela lies down on the bed. He divests himself of his shoes and socks and joins her, kissing her again. After awhile he detaches from her mouth, softly kissing her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, and down her chest and stomach… he’s between her thighs now. “Lift your hips please,” he murmurs.

“God, yes,” Angela whispers and does so, and Henry slowly, gently slides her panties down.

Randall’s breath hitches as he realizes what Henry wants to do. God, this is already so hot. He clenches his hands around the armrests of his chair, resisting the urge to touch himself already.

Henry kisses a trail along Angela’s inner thigh and _oh_. His mouth is on her now. From his vantage point, Randall can only see the back of Henry’s blonde head between Angela’s thighs, but he can also see how Angela arches up into his touch and her toes curl in delight as his lips and tongue explore her folds. She moans, her hands clenching in the bedsheets, and whispers, “Yes, there,” and “Keep going” and “God, harder” and “Oh, _Henry_ ”. Randall can’t stop staring, can’t stop listening to Angela’s gasps and moans and the little noises Henry makes licking at her. He exhales roughly and strokes himself, just a few times through the fabric of his trousers.

Then Angela grips at what she can reach of Henry – his hair – and gasps, “Henry, I’m going to, I’m almost there…” Her hips twitch wildly, rutting up into Henry’s touch, and Henry moans like he’s loving it. Angela, rarely so discomposed, throws her head back into the pillow as she comes, making all these little gasps and slowly relaxing, while Henry keeps up a steady pace of licking and sucking at her clit throughout it, and doesn’t stop until she nudges him away.

Henry comes back up, his lips shining wet with her slick. “Was that alright?” he asks quietly – not fishing for compliments, not Henry, but genuinely enquiring.

Angela stretches luxuriantly, snuggling into the sheets, and it’s the most carefree Randall has seen her in a long, long time. “Gosh, yeah, it was amazing,” she purrs, still catching her breath.

Henry sits up, moving to get off the bed apparently, but Angela stills him with a hand on his knee. He’s hard in his slacks, Randall can see it.

“Take those off,” Angela says. “Come here, husband.” It’s lighthearted, almost a tease.

“You’re not too tired?” Henry asks.

Angela laughs, a beautiful melodious sound. “Know me better, man.”

Henry undresses fully. Randall doesn’t know where to look first. At Angela, poured onto the sheets like a marble sculpture, blissful and perfect? At the long, pale, sweet expanse of Henry’s limbs in the moonlight? God, he’s never been so hard in his life. He’s shifting in his seat with the urge to relieve the pressure, the heat pooling low in his stomach.

Angela’s hands guide Henry back onto the bed, where she wants him. She tugs him further down, adjusts herself, and Henry sinks into her, easy and smooth. His hips stutter in a first, hesitant thrust, and Angela lets out a long moan. She turns her head to the side, her eyes seeking Randall.

“Aren’t you going to join us at all, Randy?” she asks breathlessly.

Randall doesn’t need asking twice. He shucks off his clothes in record time, throws them onto the armchair and almost leaps to the bed.

For a moment, he’s not sure where he fits in the tangle of limbs. He settles for pressing himself to Henry’s back, hands reaching out and around to caress them both. He just needs to touch them, somehow, in some way, and finds himself rutting his cock against Henry’s thigh, then the cleft of his ass, as Henry, gasping, trembling, continues to plunge into Angela.

“Ahh-h… I’m not going to last long…” Henry sighs.

“Yeah, me neither,” Randall pants in reply. It’s been so long, and they’re both so beautiful.

He sneaks his hands around and pinches Henry’s nipples, and Henry groans, his back going rigid for a second, and then he comes, suddenly boneless with relief, burying his head into Angela’s chest. Randall takes himself in hand and gives his cock a few hard strokes and follows Henry over the crest.

Afterwards, they are all collapsed in a heap, slowly coming down together. The space between them is going to be tacky and sweaty soon, but none of them have the energy to get up and do something about it. Randall thinks they’re going to fall asleep like this, and starts casting around for the blanket once he’s able to will his limbs to move. But it’s half-hearted, really. He doesn’t want to move too much and risk destroying this precious equilibrium between them.

Henry is the first to try to detach, but Angela pulls his head back down to her chest, running her fingers softly through his hair. “Stay,” she murmurs.

“Mmngh… wash the sheets…”

Randall laughs. “You can wash the sheets tomorrow, you neat freak.”

But Henry raises his head again, apparently a bit more awake. “Angela,” he asks, and there’s a thread of apprehension in his voice, “what if we’re going to have a baby?”

Angela chuckles softly, half asleep already. “If we’re having a baby, we’re having a baby, Henry. Now go to sleep.”

Randall can’t help but join in the chuckling. He hasn’t felt this contented in… gosh, maybe ever. “I’m sure we’ll make great dads,” he says, mostly joking, and throws the blanket over them all.


End file.
